Why things don’t get disclosed: you’re cool-capping my sense of trying, here. I won’t pretend I’m all egoless—certainly not as much as I’d like to be—but this doesn’t really matter. What we’re talking about is the thing. I’m watching my life occur like a patron at a screening for a film they’re not too fond of. And they’re the only one in the audience, and they think they’d like to go home; they’re feeling sleepy. Like an almost malicious sort of inner voidpact. Sometimes. Like it’s not so much that I can’t control myself or my body or my thoughts. It’s more that I’m not the one who’s doing the controlling. I’m sort of like the thing (on the inside) watching the person do what little he does of controlling himself, and what happens around or as a result. Regardless. It’s sort of like I’m regardless, sometimes. The past few years especially, the world has gotten vaguer for me. It’s not like I’m less aware by choice—though I am. It’s more like I’m suddenly finding that It’s all disparate and far away and apart. Like a new dimension was added slowly, in low doses, over time.
What’s going on admittedly way-way over my head. But that’s not the thing. The thing is that I’m here like this. Lying down on my side with my arms brought to cushion either side of my face, so that my ears get covered. The less I hear, the easier it becomes to recenter as it were. Try to be the nascent thing in the center of the darkness vaguely aware of the space around. Not looking at any one thing, but still seeing the peripheries. All of what is visible a periphery. Visibility itself a flared-up sensory experience that distracts you from the awareness that you’re not really here right now. This is not really your mind. Half or more of anything I say here is probably rote to the extent that I’m not thinking about it. That’s why so often I try not to think. I don’t like to think; I don’t like to try. Not about things I don’t care about. And about the things I care about, many are the same things that hurt me, or that I dislike myself caring about. Things like the objective societal prescription for the lack of quality my life assumes. Things like, oh: he’s poor, friendless, nothing. That sort of stuff really hurts your ego if you let it affect you. And of course, it does, because you have such a huge ego. But getting lifted and being alone for so long, I come to for whatever reason associate myself too closely with the persona I never use. Or that I lost. Or that I thought I had but never did. It’s like there’s this empty nutshell on a flat plane in front of me and I’m looking into it, but all I can see is myself: looking into a nutshell. Really leaning in. You’re not the subject anymore, you’ve made it so you’re the object. So you try to detach from that easy motion. You know it’s so easy now, it’s all you’ve done for a long time. You try to disregard and detach from that feeling that you’re the center of your own universe and “all I know is me,” even though it’s true to some extent. What suffers here is the thing that believes it is actually being hurt, inside. That sickly little precious nutrient. Corrupting itself on open air, poking holes in its Ziploc baggy. See? Just about all of the previous several sentences were not really thought up too intently. It was all just what you call that “drivel.” It was that drivel from my mind, or what I call a mind, or what I think is I. I don’t know. Me doesn’t know. I am still just watching it being typed, here. I was originally going to try to make a little dream come true. I was wanting to write to share a story or to make something that somehow edified a hidden thing about me that I’d upon manifesting it suddenly become aware of or valuate. But… but what? Hell, all those pseudo-objective protests are just bullshit anyway, right? Why not, man. Art for art’s sake. Whatever, all that. That’s what I really want to do, and—if you can do something so well it informs what you are, then—that’s what I want to be. I have an older memory. It was like second grade, and my friends and I with our lunch boxes at the big table in the cafeteria. I used a potato chip as a visual aid. I think it was a Ruffles; it had ridges. I was illustrating the act of a ghost hovering up the stairs. Someone hiding in a room behind the door at the top. And suddenly it became a gag, because the person hiding realized the ghost was just a potato chip. That sort of thing, you know. I get really sad. I think I’m a sensitive person. I get really sad, being able to remember things. Even the really positive and natural and good-good memories, for some reason. Like something’s lost, or like something changed. Everything just perfectly arranged to allow you to realize that you are the only one watching this film at all ever. And when it’s over, you will be gone. And no one will be home and there will be no home. I get really, almost desperately sad. But at the same time, this mix of emotions. Because I also have a fondness for the obviously good things. This is, now that I’ve gotten to this part, all just me rambling. Yes. It’s me rambling. But you know what? At least I wrote, today. Some persona or inner sentient string of word-rollers wants also to say, “God love you and keep you. Have a good day.”